


Corey Taylor: Cold Hands

by skysonfire



Series: Corey Taylor [1]
Category: Slipknot (Band), Stone Sour
Genre: #8, Corey Todd Taylor, Devilish Midweek Divulgence, F/M, Smut with a Story, www.devilish-midweek-divulgence.tumblr.com
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-16 09:37:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3483341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skysonfire/pseuds/skysonfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for the Devilish Midweek Divulgence "hump day" blog (www.devilish-midweek-divulgence.tumblr.com), this is a short piece that I wrote with Corey Taylor in mind. Photo edits associated with this piece can be found on the Tumblr blog site. Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote>





	Corey Taylor: Cold Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Devilish Midweek Divulgence "hump day" blog (www.devilish-midweek-divulgence.tumblr.com), this is a short piece that I wrote with Corey Taylor in mind. Photo edits associated with this piece can be found on the Tumblr blog site. Enjoy!

Sometimes her hands are cold when she touches me, her fingers like pale snowflakes falling on my neck and melting against my back. There’s something about when she feels me with her wintry touch. It calms my racing thoughts, but excites my ravenous need. She is gentle with her hands as they warm against my body when she ferrets her way under my clothes – her eyes dark, mischievous pools. She is so fucking distracting and she tells me that she’s sorry, but she’s not.

I could weep for her touch when she’s not near, the way she traces the landscape of my face. I wonder what I look like to her when she rapes me with the expression that I love — the one that demands attention and control and everything that I have inside that’s broken. Her hands know how to feel me, and I am commanded by the press of her palms on the skin of my chest; the way she fingers my tattoos as though she is re-branding me as her own.

When she mounts my hips and takes me inside so deeply, I am hypnotized most by the force of her hands on my shoulders, her fingers pressing deeply like biting serpents. Sometimes they are still cool, and when she runs her hands along my hair when she’s wild with passion, I consider if she notices what her touch does – how it spurs me on; how it makes me want to work her until she is begging me to make her …

Sometimes her hands are cold when she touches me and she knows what it does. Hers is a cold fire that ignites my world; a trance that calms my soul; a demand that fights my terrors. “I love touching you,” she tells me. “I love touching you.”


End file.
